


I'm Not Mad That's Just My Face

by loveleighe



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Oneshot/drabble Collection, all of the relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveleighe/pseuds/loveleighe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of SNK fics. Pairings will be posted in the beginning of the chapters!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. JeanMarco #1

**Author's Note:**

> Jean and Marco - friends since childhood.

“So you’re telling me you _don't_ know how to skateboard?” Marco asks, cringing silently at his own slight lisp. He rolls his tongue around the inside of his teeth, mentally cursing the retainer. When Jean tosses a glance over his shoulder with an expression as cloudy as a summer rainstorm, Marco smiles at him brightly.

Jean, in return, falters and coughs into his hand. “So what?”

“So nothing. I was just asking.” Marco lengthens his strides so he’s not behind Jean anymore, but rather beside him. He eyes his best friend hesitantly. “Are you...sure this is the best idea then? If you don’t know how?”

The blond boy stops to spin on him, borrowed - read: stolen - skateboard clutched desperately under his left arm. “Fuck off, Marco.” There’s no heat behind the words and the darker haired boy stares at Jean, unwaveringly. 

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a good idea or not, okay? I’m not going to let that shitty little - little - fucker! That little fucker ruin my life!” Jean doesn’t swear all that much, not really. Only when he’s really worked up. Or, rather, when the topic of conversation is - “Eren Jeager is a fucking spoiled little shithead and I am not going to let him get a single thing up on me!” By this point Jean is shouting and absently, Marco thanks whatever God is listening for the fact that they’re well off the beaten path and far away from any residences.

He sighs through his nose.

It’s been like this since high school started. Jean and Marco had gone to school together on the west side, originally, but their classes ended after grade eight. Which wasn’t a problem, really. The high school was two blocks further down.

Until it wasn’t, anymore. 

They’d been forced to enroll halfway across the city. Almost all the way on the east end.

The bus ride was long, but it was free, and they spent it with Marco reading and Jean drooling on his shoulder. That was fine. The walk from the stop to the school was fine -

It was the school itself that wasn’t fine. 

Their own home school had had an ‘accident’ and wouldn’t be reopen for another year, assuming the city didn’t condemn it. Their new school? Big, shiny, fancy...

“Rich” - Jean had said the first day they’d stood outside it. They had exchanged looks and Jean had shuffled his feet, ears burning. His left shoe had a hole in the sole and the right toe was scuffed beyond repair. 

Marco had looked down at his own beaten-up loafers, shrugged, and started to drag Jean towards the front doors…

And then an angry Eren Jeager had crashed straight into Jean and sent them both tumbling down the front steps of the school. They were both sore, embarrassed. And they both let it go to their heads. Jean threw comments about Eren’s “pretty girlfriend” - who happened to be a  
and Marco was mad at him for a week for the way he made poor Armin blush - and Eren threw out nastiness about Jean’s face, his hair, his shoes. They’d attacked each other verbally, then physically, until an older boy name Reiner had stepped between them. Jean had taken one look and stepped back, cowed. Eren had kept spitting insults - until his sister arrived to drag him off by the ear, giving him a boot in the ass every few steps for good measure. 

Since then? It’s been a constant war between them. Marco will admit that Jean’s grades have improved. Jean’s always been a good student, but fighting Eren for the best grade in the class has dragged his lower B’s to almost A’s. Marco refused to let Armin tell them that both the blond and Marco himself are already in the top percentile for academics. 

It just never stops, though. Eren had been practicing his skateboarding skills just outside the doors of the school last week. He’d gathered quite a crowd, a few people cheering for him. Marco could admit that the other boy was good; and he was intense - when he was boarding or biking he threw his all into it, like nothing scared him. Like nothing could stand in the way of him fulfilling the ultimate rush.

Jean had, of course, scoffed to himself and shouldered between Reiner and Bertl. “So what? Like you’re doing anything fancy.” He’d taunted over his shoulder, sauntering off towards the bus stop.

Eren had taken it a bit further, however. “Saturday, two o’clock, here.” He’d called back. Jean had merely flipped him the finger.

Marco had face palmed quietly and stalked after his shorter friend, eyes burning into the back of his head. Once on the safety of the bus, Jean had looked properly cowed at the glower and had muttered into his wrist as he chewed on a bracelet Krista had forced him to wear - “For friendship and good luck, Jean!” - to avoid having to talk.

Marco drags himself to the present. Jean is looking at him with what Ymir calls his “crazy eyes”, chest heaving as he pants and waits.

Slowly, Marco smiles and lifts his brows. “Are you done?” He asks, in a no-bullshit tone. He see’s Jean start to falter before the fire returns in his expression and he slams the board to the ground. “Jean. You’re being ridiculous. If you don’t know how to board, and never wanted to know how to board. You’re going to hurt yourself just because you don’t like someone else? I know you’re not stupid.” He keeps his voice even as he speaks. Still, he knows that if he grabbed Jean by the head, gave him a shake and called him a fucking ridiculous child Jean still wouldn’t take all that much offense. They’re too close for petty insults to get between them. 

“You don’t get it.” 

“Then tell me what I’m not understanding.” Marco says, spreading his arms with his fingers splayed open. “Please, Jean. This is getting out of hand and I’m not really sure what to do anymore. All you ever talk about is Eren and being better and it’s bringing everybody else down. And now it’s getting to the point where you may actually hurt yourself over a petty grudge. So if you think you can make me understand why you’re acting like this, be my guest. I’m all ears.” 

Jean sets a foot on the board, pursing his lips and darting his eyes away. “It’s not just Eren, okay? It’s that whole place. You and I both know if you were an only child, you’d live on that side of town and dress the same way they do and have just as big a fuckin’ stick up your ass. The only reason your parents didn’t move your ass over there is ‘cause they’ve got your brother and sister too. It’s just me and my mom and even if we saved for five years we still couldn’t afford to live in one of those shitty apartments for even half a year. And they all know it.” There’s a bitterness in his voice that makes Marco’s heart tighten in pain. He doesn’t reply though, merely crosses his arms and waits for the rest of the storm. “And Eren is the worst one.”

He waits. Waits some more. Jean doesn’t elaborate and Marco racks his brain. “Jean.” He starts, gently. “Is this about what happened the day you and Eren met? You know you two were both angry and argumentative. He didn’t mean any of what he said.”

“That’s bullshit. He meant it.”

“And you meant all those nasty things you said about Armin?”

Jean’s eyes whip back towards him. “What? No of course not, but -”

“Well then? Just because Eren’s family has money doesn’t mean he’s any better. Or that he really thinks he’s any better, or thinks any less of you. You guys fight all the time, yeah, but you can’t tell me you don’t like the fact that he can keep up with you. That he’s just as hard headed?”

The blond hunches his shoulders up, making himself look smaller and trying to find a way to derail the conversation. 

“You can’t go your whole life hating someone because of one silly argument. You’re bigger than that.”

Finally, Jean moves. “Maybe.” He shrugs and shifts his weight, leaning more of it onto the skateboard. “And maybe you’re right and I gotta let it go. But you know what Marco? Not today.” And with that, Jean attempts to skateboard.

Marco wasn’t expecting Jean to actually fail horribly. He’s always been athletic, and intelligent. The board is about balance though and it’s something Jean severely lacks in. It sort of happens in slow motion. One minute, Jean is gliding down the street. The next minute he’s tripping himself up. Hitting the ground - rolling down the dip of the road, scraping against the asphalt. 

By the time Marco makes it to him Jean is already sitting up - and Marco’s breath seizes when he crouches down to see that his best friend is  
. Big, ugly, silent tears that make his red face blotchy. Blearily, Jean glares at him and swipes a bloody arm across his face. “Go away.” He manages to croak, followed by a hiccup. 

His mind blanks out. If he were at home he’d run for the first aid kit. But home is rather far away and he doesn’t know what to do. Almost sluggishly he starts thinking and then, almost  
thinking, Marco plants a wet kiss on the clear skin above Jean’s oozing knee, loud over the sound of hitching breath. 

“What the - w - Marco?” Jean _squeaks_ and the sound does... _something_ to Marco, deep inside. He peers at his friend from under his lashes, smiling ruefully.

“Sorry. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do - when one of the kids gets cut up I just...something mom does, you know? And -”

“What?” Jean snaps back. There’s no real heat there, though, except in his eyes - Marco realizes he’s still crying, quiet, and it’s not pain not really. It’s anger and humiliation - “Kiss my boo-boo better?”

“What like your mom never did?”

“Yeah when I was like, four.”

“Well you’re _acting_ like you’re four.” He replies, leaning closer. Jean eyes him a little wearily and Marco grins. He lunges, fast, and kisses a spot beside a smidge of road rash on Jean’s cheek.

“Stop it, asshole!” Jean shouts. There’s laughter in his voice as bloody hands come up to shove at Marco’s broader chest. 

The dark haired boy leans his weight on his friend, stealing a hand to kiss above his scraped knuckles. His eyes dart along his friends body, finding places to plant wet kisses. He’s surprised that it works; kissing the pain away, and they end up wrestling in the dark street for longer than they should. Eventually Jean is tired and pliant, half-glaring up at his best friend but smiling a bit just the same. “I hate you.”

“Yeah I know.” Marco says cheerfully, rolling to sit cross legged beside Jean’s head. The blond stretches his arms up with a slight wince and lifts onto his elbows, casting a glance around for the board. He shrugs when he doesn’t find it, then rolls his head back towards Marco.

Absently, his tongue flicks out over his lip. He tastes the copper tang of blood and the thought that hits him sends heat rushing through his body. “Uh, hey - Marco?”

“Mm?” Marco hums back, head cocking.

Jean forces himself to meet his friends eyes. More firmly, he pokes his tongue at the spot on his lip. “You missed a spot.” He says, proud of his voice not wavering.

Marco’s expression softens. 

Neither of them have ever...kissed anyone before. Hell, they’ve hardly even thought about kissing anyone. But suddenly the idea seems appealing, and Jean doesn't know how he’s laying here with scabs forming, exhausted and sore, and wanting to kiss his best friend silly. 

And then Marco leans forwards. 

Their noses collide uncomfortably, and Jean instantly breaks out into a sweat even as he tilts his head for a better angle. He inhales sharply at the sensation; it’s weird. And a little wet, but he thinks that may be his fault. But then Marco makes a tiny noise and presses their mouths closer, tongue tentatively joining the party and -

Jean jerks away, heart nearly pounding out of his chest. “D-did we - “

“Yeah.” Marco looks dazed too.

“A-are you...Is that-”

“No. Yeah.” He answers the unfinished questions. Marco licks at his own mouth this time, eyeing Jean intently. “We should...we need to go. We can talk about this later.” He stands, holds a hand out to help up his very best friend. Jean accepts it and cringes at the glide of skin, cursing his sweaty palms seven times over. Marco doesn’t seem to notice though and…

They start to walk home skateboard forgotten and Marco doesn’t let his hand go the whole time.

Jean doesn’t go to school on Saturday and tells himself that he’ll deal with the ridicule on Monday. Instead, he spends Saturday playing COD with his head resting against Marco’s knee, curled up in the Bodt basement and content as content can be.


	2. JeanMarco #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I'm in a fix myself aha) "every day you order some different type of food and my coworker keeps telling me that you just throw it out and that makes me angry since I spend time on those orders so I confront you about it and instead you just awkwardly confess your attraction to me and tell me that’s why you even come and now I’m really flattered but still a little angry wtf you cheesy asshole" au pls

“Uh-oh.” Bertl hums, lips curving up into a shit-eating grin. “Mister short, blond and snappy, ten o’clock.”

Marco huffs out a laugh, “Bertl - everyone is short compared to you.” He says, voice fond. He finishes wiping the counter and leans back to stare towards the storefront of The Rhino.

It’s a small place tucked into a downtown strip. They serve alcohol from local breweries but their food is honestly the best. It’s still early in the day so no one’s boozing up, but the place is packed full of people stuffing their faces with house nachos; loaded down with beans and creamy cheeses. Marco is certain he hears one of their regulars, Sasha, moan in delight as she stuffs a handful into her mouth. Her girlfriend - a slim, dark haired woman she sometimes calls ‘Kasa - smiles faintly and dips her spoon into her French onion soup.

Short blond and snappy has come in every single day for the last three weeks at 11:45 am sharp. Always with ripped jeans, faded band tee’s and a scowl that would make most people cringe. It only really makes Bertl and Marco smile in faint amusement at one another.

Normally.

Reiner - the owner of The Rhino, and Bertl’s fiance - had told Marco the other day that although short, blond and snappy orders something everyday he never eats it. Reiner takes lunch about the same time their new regular comes in and they pass each other often.

Every single time they do?

Marco’s slaved over dishes get set on a newspaper box and forgotten. Apparently the newbie doesn’t open the containers. He doesn’t even get a paper! He just drops the food and leaves, nervously looking around and wiping his hands on his pants.

Reiner informed them that the local homeless man - a truly harmless person who had once actually saved Marco from a mugging after a late shift - takes the containers, usually. Marco doesn’t mind that, not really. It just seems weird to buy such an expensive lunch and discard it (not that Marco will ever complain about feeding those in need; at the end of the night all of their leftovers get handed out diligently to anyone who needs them. The Rhino is a charitable place)

It just doesn’t sit right. His food is GOOD. Very, very good.

“I’m gonna ask him.” He decides, pursing his lips. Short, blond and snappy is doing his usual - pacing in front of the door, checking his phone, peering inside. At 11:50 sharp the door chimes open.

“Welcome to The Rhino!” Bertl booms over the sports station playing on TV. A friend of theirs, Annie, abandons her stealth-watching of Sasha and “Kasa” to give him a sour look. He smiles and cheerfully flips her off.

Short, blond and snappy approaches the counter with a swagger that screams ‘I own this town’. He leans his hip at the counter, staring off past Marco’s shoulder at the menu.

Today, they’re offering alu kadai - a type of Indian fries, served messy and loaded down with seasoning, cooked to perfection and topped with fresh lime - and a rich misala soup.

“Yeah I’ll get the -” He squints at the names, mentally tests the words. Shrugs. “The daily whatever special you got going on.” Finally he looks at Marco, a fleeting glance. “Please.” He adds as if it’s an afterthought.

“Sure.” Marco says, cheerful. He turns towards the open kitchen behind them. “Ten minutes. Let me ask you something though - how did you enjoy the pizza burger yesterday?”

Short, blond and snappy freezes like a deer caught in the headlights.

“And our steak nachos from two days ago? I’m trying to figure out if I should make that topping a permanent resident on the menu.”

Sasha calls out a hefty “Fuck yeah!” from her table, and Marco realizes that most of the other patrons are watching the exchange.

“I…They were great. The nachos were - the meat was - “

Marco drops his fries into a small pot of oil, then flicks a timer after shaking a mixture over top of them. He approaches the counter again and leans on it, both brows raised. “I didn’t serve nachos to you this week.” Short, blond and snappy is starting to turn beet red. “And I got here two hours early today to peel those potatoes. Because here at The Rhino, good food and good company are the two most important things. So you see, I came in and hand peeled all those potatoes myself. I cut them all, ice bathed them, salted them. I packed them all nice and neat into the fridge and then I waited. Then you came in, and ordered our alu kadai with a masala side soup. The soup is scratch, by the way. And fresh. And you know - that’s great. That you come here, and you order food. But I didn’t come two hours early, peel potatoes, chop peanuts, simmer broth, or anything else so that you could order. Our alu kadai. With a side of masala soup. And then throw it out.” His voice remains even throughout the entire speech, eyes never leaving the other mans face. “I slaved for hours over this daily special menu you see. So. You’re going to tell me why you think it’s a good idea to come here. Every single day. At the same time. And then throw away my food. Or else my friend here is going to kick you out and his fiance - the big beefy guy you passed a block up? - is going to make sure you don’t come back. Because nobody.” At this, he pokes the other man in the chest. “Nobody insults mine and Bertl’s genius like that.”

He looks like his head is going to explode. His expression is somewhere between sour and horrified, and he opens his mouth five times before releasing a squeak. After what seems like a long internal battle, his face darkens again. “It’s your fucking fault.” He snaps, and jabs his own finger into Marco’s chest.

Bertl straightens up from his slouch, easy smile turning to a sharp, watchful look instantly.

“Excuse me? It’s my fault that you don’t know how to eat food?”

The other man tosses his hands in the air, clearly exasperated. “No! I know how to - look. You have no fucking idea how your…stupid fucking freckles make other people feel, okay? It’s all your fault. When you started doing specials the other week you were…standing outside handing out samples and I was on a coffee run for the shop and you just. Smiled like a fucking asshole! Okay? And yeah. Okay. So I don’t eat the food, but - my roommate packs my lunch everyday and by the time eleven rolls around I’m HUNGRY. So I eat at my desk then come here to…to see you, and I’m not hungry anymore but I can’t just come in and not fucking order anything. So I grab your stupid daily special and leave it in case someone else wants to eat it, or whatever, so that it’s not going to waste and - just - fuck you!” He’s panting by the end of it, eyes a little wild around the edges.

“So you’re telling me you’ve spent almost two hundred dollars in three weeks because you…like my face?”

“Yes! Okay? I like your stupid fucking face!”

Bertl is sliding down the counter,he’s laughing too hard. Sasha is squealing in delight and ‘Kasa is smiling. Annie even looks amused, her expression softer as she watches them.

The timer goes off and Marco turns on his heel. He dumps his fries onto a plate, instead of a plastic take-away and drops it on the counter. Crosses his arms over his chest after placing a fork in a still-hot fry.

Bertl brings the soup.

“I’m not giving you my name, or my number, until you try the fries AND the soup.” He deadpans.

Blondie gapes.

“I’m serious. I’m not giving you anything until you eat my food, and tell me what you think. And if you don’t eat the food, I’m having Bertl kick you out.”

Bertl straightens fully and leans over Marco, towering above him.

Blondie gulps, eyes him a bit. He has that look like ‘maybe I could take him’ - and then of course, the door chimes. They’ve been here longer than they normally have and Marco smiles dangerously.

“Hi Reiner. You’re back soon!” He calls, chipper.

Reiner stops behind blondie, who tenses like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs as he darts his gaze around. The huge man says nothing, just stares down and waits for an explanation.

“Eat. My. Fries.” Marco says, tapping his fingers against his arms with every word.

“You’re batshit fucking crazy.” Blondie accuses, lifting the fork. The fries are still lightly steaming, perfectly golden brown. They all hear Sasha moan again - and they all realize she’s moved for a better vantage point. Blondie’s hot, amber eyes meet Marco’s dark brown ones and he shoves the fries into his mouth.

And then makes a sound that is pure sex bottled deep in his throat, his eyelids drooping. “Oh my God.” He manages to get around his mouthful “Oh my God. This is - so fucking - what the Hell?”

Reiner bellows a laugh behind him, claps him on the shoulder, then dips over to Annie’s booth to steal some of her fried dumplings.

The stern expression he’s been wearing fades into a warm, welcoming smile. It’s the Marco that people - apparently blondie included - fall for in seconds. “Welcome to The Rhino.” He says, “My name is Marco. And this -” He scribbles on the back of one of Reiner’s cards and tucks it under blondie’s plate. “Is my number.” He leans forward. “Next time? Just ask instead of wasting my food.”

He pulls back before blondie can reply, and returns to his kitchen to wash the station he’d used for lunch.

“Jean.” He mumbles.

Marco turns. “What?”

He clears his throat and picks up his fries, balancing the plate on top of his soup so he can make his way to the only free table left. “My name is Jean.”

Bertl mulls it over, then shakes his head. “Nope! I like short, blond and snappy MUCH better! What do you think Marco?”

Marco just smiles softly and watches…Jean. As he moves towards his table. “No Bertl, I like Jean just fine.”


	3. JeanMarco Cupcakes M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt! Jeanbo makes way too many cupcakes at 3am to de-stress, and his roommate Marco is very confused why he is being woken up at 3am but hey, cupcakes
> 
> (i took a lot of creative liberty with this prompt, I hope you don’t mind ;; )

He hates parties. Okay, no scratch that - Jean loves parties. He hates hosting parties, and he especially hates Sasha for having to back out of goody-duty last minute. Due to - of all things - food poisoning. 

A quick calculation tells him he’ll only need twenty four cupcakes. Jean thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can handle twenty four…

After all, what’re cupcakes when you’ve made your own meringue? He glances over his shoulder to smile faintly at the Christmas trees and snowmen lined up, decorated and ridiculously melt-in-your-mouth. Never in a million years did Jean think he would be making meringue goodies in a low-heat over at two am on a Saturday. But here he is, and there they are.

The mixer - a massive Kitchenaid one his mom had gotten for a stupid amount of money, and doesn’t bother to use - sits on the counter, freshly cleaned and ready to go. 

So Jean grabs the food coloring and the flour, picks up the recipe book and sleepily reads over ingredients. 

Twenty four. He only needs twenty four.

⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔

Marco wakes up when he’s attacked. Or at least he assumes he’s being attacked until his brain catches up with his body and he realizes it’s just Jean - flopped on top of him and holding on for dear life. It’s hard to get his limbs to settle back down against the bed but he manages, forcing himself to still against the sheets as he eyes his boyfriend with concern. 

Jean mutters something and shifts, digging his chin into Marco’s chest and glancing at him briefly; there are bags under his eyes from exhaustion, and his lashes are a bit wet. Not like he’s been crying, but as if he had been planning on it. He snuffles once, sleepy, and ducks his chin down to nudge his nose against the fabric of Marco’s shirt. He settles there, finally.

Marco sighs gently and shifts his own weight, pulling a hand out from under Jean and using it to smooth blond hair down. “Baby?” He asks, because he knows the name makes Jean blush and wiggle yeah, but it usually cheers him up to. “S’wrong? Time s’it?” He’s sleepy still; a few weeks of exams will do that to a guy. 

Jean doesn’t wiggle or squirm. He huffs against Marco’s chest and lifts his head a wee bit before dropping it back down. His arms snake around his boyfriend's waist, fingers tugging at the fabric of his shirt as Jean settles in once more. “Fucked up.”

“You made a mistake?” He keeps his tone soothing as he pats at soft hair. “That’s okay. What happened?” He’s waking up bit by bit, although it’s hard; Jean’s weight is comforting now that he knows it’s not trying to kill him. He wants nothing more than to haul Jean up, closer, maybe settle long legs between Marco’s own. His cock twitches valiantly from where it’s being flattened under Jean’s hip and he feels more than hears the other man snort in vague amusement. He smiles sheepishly and shrugs. 

“Too many.”

“Too many mistakes?”

“No.” Jean groans and nips at Marco in reprimand, sharp flicker of pain through his shirt. Marco tugs at the hair under his hand in retaliation. “Too many cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes? Jean...you woke me up over cupcakes? How many?”

“So many.” He lifts his head again, finally, and his eyes are freshly wet and red. Sleepy and sulky - normally Jean isn’t exactly whiny. For the most part Jean is a well adjusted person who sometimes kicks a table or swears profusely. He never lets anything get to him like this.

It’s probably the stress of exam time and the party, Marco reasons. He busies himself with freeing his other hand, sliding both of them down Jean’s back softly. “Okay. So many cupcakes. How is that a bad thing, hm?”

“You don’t understand.” He mumbles. “There was supposed to be twenty four.”

“Mhm?” He sinks his thumbs into the tension at the base of Jean’s spine, feels knots grind and listens to the shuddering breath that gets inhaled above his chest. Feels the way Jean’s muscles stretch, hips tensing and flexing before rolling down. 

“There’s not twenty four.”

“That’s okay. Everyone likes cupcakes.” He digs in again because he can and there’s a soft ‘pop’ when Jean shifts; the muscles there have loosened a bit and the flex of his hips releases the last of the tension. The moan he lets out is more a mewl and should be illegal. Marco bites his lower hip and fights the urge to thrust his own hips up; his cock is more than half hard now, trying to pump up the rest of the way even with a bony hip digging down into it. 

“Even ninety-six?”

“N- Jean. How did you manage to make ninety-six cupcakes?”

“I thought the recipe said six and I quadrupled it…”

“And?”

“It did say six...six giant cupcakes...I was using the medium size cupcake tray - so each batch made…”

“Twenty four?”

“But I mixed it all before I started baking.” He snuffles again and moves finally; spreads his legs a little bit and wiggles up Marco’s body until he can press his face into his throat instead. Marco’s dick pulses in relief and Jean snorts again as it nudges against his thigh. He doesn’t comment though - can’t, when he’s digging into Marco’s abdomen, unable to stop from rolling his hips subtly every few moments. 

It’s comfortable and he thinks that probably neither of them are going to last very long but that they both definitely deserve this, need it even. He trails his fingers back down Jean’s back and over his ass, pressing against his crack through his boxers just to hear his breath stutter. 

He plays with him like that for a bit. Fingers press against a cloth-covered hole then slide further down, cupping Jean’s balls and tugging at them, weighing them in his palm. He murmurs against Jean’s hair that he feels heavy here, revels in the deep groan he gets when he squeezes as he talks. It doesn’t take long for Jean to shift, spreading his legs wide to lay on the outside of Marco’s, their dicks bumping through their pants as he shuffles to find a good angle. 

They can’t even kiss. Jean keeps his face pressed against Marco’s throat, panting wetly against his flesh as his thighs tense, hips roll. It’s clumsy and really not all that satisfying but the thought of it, the feel of it, just makes them both impossibly harder. Marco pumps his hips upwards slowly, listens to Jean breath and gasp against him.

It’s embarrassing how quickly everything is over. Marco grinds himself into the same bony hip that had been hindering him, long fingers dipping down the back of Jean’s pants to finally press dry against his hole. Jean shouts, wordless, and his movements become frantic as warmth spreads across Marco’s groin and a particularly painful up-roll has his boxers dampening as well.

“Better?” He gurgles out, feeling sleep try to snatch at his mind again, drag him back under as his heart begins to calm.

Jean doesn’t answer and Marco rolls his eyes; his lovely boyfriend just dead weight on top of him, come cooling uncomfortably on both of them. He can’t bring himself to be truly annoyed though and sets about arranging Jean so that they’re both comfortable, dragging the blankets up and over. He nestles his noses into soft blond hair and drifts to sleep to the smell of vanilla and frosting.

⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔

Marco is impressed with the cupcakes; they’re red and green and blue and yellow - vanilla, orange, nutty. Flavors and colors everywhere, each of them topped with white frosting; half of them hold soft meringue snowmen and the others boast Christmas trees with sprinkle ornaments. They’re well made, truly, and really beautiful sitting around the kitchen…

Sitting on every possible surface in the kitchen. 

He resigns himself to his fate and picks up a snowman cupcake, biting the head off the meringue and letting it melt on his tongue. By the time the party rolls around they’ve gotten down to eighty cupcakes and the very thought of homemade frosting makes both of them feel more than a little queasy.


End file.
